


Blood

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Hannibal, Dark, F/M, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Mentions of Mischa - Freeform, Mentions of Mizumono, Murder, Obsession, Pre-show, Psychiatrist Hannibal, Psycopathy, Serial Killer Warning Signs, Snippets, Surgeon Hannibal, Teen Hannibal, Violent, blood obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: For Hannibal Lecter, it has always been a fascinating substance. Full of life, telling of death...black in the moonlight.Progressive series of moments through Hannibal's life from taking his revenge for Mischa's death to his the attempted massacre during Mizumono.





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is way different than my other Hannibal stuff. Way darker, but I was feeling up for writing it! Hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think!

He liked the feel of it. Sticky on his fingers, slick on the grass, dark in the almost nonexistent moonlight as it sprayed across the floor of the filthy hovel these men had called home. He let out a hard breath as the body beneath him became dead weight and fell to the floor in a heap. He could taste the metallic tang of it as stayed suspended for an extra moment as a fine mist in the air.

He knew better than to let it get on his clothes, he refused to be incriminated for the murder of two murderers, only checking each one’s pulse to make sure they were dead. So easy to kill, they hadn’t even remembered his face despite the days of endless torment they had subjected him to. He had seen his own blood then, soaking into the dirt through the wool pants that had at one point been his favorite. His sister’s blood, running over the sides of the table they killed her on. Down both sides of his face as they clamped his jaws shut until he swallowed down his throat. It had tasted like tears.

He stepped out, walking the miles back to the orphanage that was as hospitable as a prison might be but would have to do for now. They would never know of this. The too-kind woman who cared for too many children with too few resources would be happy he had had been gone for the night and one of the other children could sleep on the mattress he kept stuffed in the attic in an attempt to keep himself seperate from the rest of them. He had never spoken to her, to any of them, and he had no intention of answering any of her questions now, with his blood buzzing on a rush he hadn’t known was possible. He made sure he was bereft of any evidence before climbing inside, silently joining her in the kitchen to help prepare biscuits for the younger children before the sun started to peak over the January horizon.

 

 

He liked the way it was evidence of his skill when it would spill from the animals in the backyard of his uncle’s estate as he dissected the animals he caught in the complex traps he had strung from the trees where his uncle would never find them if he went looking. It was dark red, still life-giving until he could see the eyes of the rabbits and bats and squirrels and shrews fade as it started to pump slower and slower to make it easy to pick apart the skin and tissue and organs within.

He wondered how it might look spilling out of another person. Since the two men, he hadn’t had the chance to see it again, black in moonlight or gleaming crimson in the sunshine. That day would come; the day he could leave this place and take his talents for anatomy and precision into places that would give him both power and notoriety. He could picture his art pieces, the sketches that the Lady Murasaki insisted on displaying in their drawing room, no matter how frightening her young protégé had found them, inked in red instead of the soft pencil he used now. They would be magnificent.

Almost as magnificent as his other designs, set amongst the pastoral imagery of the trees: small, immobile bodies suspended and impaled in a piece of magnificence, even in death.

 

 

He watches it pulse with every heartbeat as he performs surgery, knowing the other doctors mistake his fixation for uncertainty. They are incompetent, impetulent, and hardly worth the explanation he could provide for them. They would never understand the beauty of what it could be. An art form all its own. But instead, they see it only for the life it gives, not for what it could take away.

At the end he smiles, one of the new doctors in residence clapping as he puts in the final stitch that will leave minimal scarring if any, and he gave them the same smile he always did, undoing his gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bag whose sides were stained red and were full of ruined needles and thin sheets of latex for the sake of protecting people who could afford to pay for it.

He always stood and watched as the attending nurse folded their scrubs into bags, taken to be bleached or burned. She would always smile at him, let her eyes linger a little too-long on his arms or his cheeks when she thought he wasn’t listening. A rudeness he wouldn’t have tolerated if he could have afforded to do away with it. But he had figured out long ago to hunt only those he met in passing, not those who invited him for coffee each weekend, not seeing how thin their thread of life was running.

 

 

He had finally found a way to keep it from his clothes, though he despised the feel of his new covering. He felt as though he was a giant doll, packaged and ready to be shipped into the stick-fingered hands of an ungrateful child. But it let him do his work in peace, without the worry of always having to check for fingerprints or for stray hairs or spots of blood on his clothes. Not that he could ever be tied to any of these crimes unless someone took it upon themselves to check the contents of one of the dishes he brought to staff events or served to the guests who frequented his home.

He misses the feel of it running through his fingers in a red tide, but now he was fully a creature of the night, and even the messiest, most elaborate of his pieces that stained both the bodies and the Earth below them red with their contents posed any threat to his capture. He was truly free, and the inconspicuous plastic that hung behind the rows of expensive plaid was never lent to any suspicion.

 

He misses it when he changes careers. He can feel the weakness inside himself at no longer wanting to accept the failures that are bound to come with surgery. Not everyone can be saved. That he realized quickly, but each death felt like a personal attack on him, and the sad glances given by the others in his room did nothing but fuel his desire to change.

So now he sits across from his patients instead of standing over them, with his hands soaked and mind filled with the image of them gasping out final breaths. He has to admit it almost more interesting this way. He pushes them to the brink, finds that conventional practices are about as useful as one could expect, and he starts to see how far a person can go before they break.

He satisfies himself with his work at night, spinning through the cards of everyone from the woman at the farmers market who sold organic potatoes to the man who operated the IT desk at the electronics warehouse. It still flows from them in all sorts of strange patterns, spraying with the unpredictability he has come to appreciate with the minds of the people he sees for the majority of his day.

 

 

He can admire the style of Garret Jacob Hobbs, and he has to admit that when they pull the girl’s body off of the antlers, he can see the appeal in the gleaming red tips she leaves behind. He dares not look at Will Graham, the man next to him who is near-choked with horror as his own mind overwhelms him. He is fascinating: rude but not despicable as most are, his adamant refusal to be a puppet of Jack Crawford one of his more endearing qualities.

He smiles at the memory of kneeling across from him, feeling it pump from Abigail Hobbs’ neck over his fingers as what had spilled form her mother and father decorated Will over his glasses and his beard and his formerly pristine white shirt that would be, in most eyes, ruined forever. It was a beautiful image.

 

 

Betrayal tastes like sand, and feels like softness. He runs his hand over Will Graham’s ear, seeing the fear in the man’s eyes as he takes in the image of him after his fight with Jack Crawford. This is not what he wanted, but he can’t deny the satisfaction when the heat flows from Will over his fingers around the edge of his knife blade, soaking into his shirt and onto the floor as Will collapses. When the same knife goes across Abigail’s throat, it is only the extra rush that he needs to feel free of them both, of all of this.

The rain feels like a new betrayal, but he lets it cleanse him like it might have cleansed Pontius Pilot, swirling red at his feet as it clears the evidence from his skin. He has things to accomplish, but can stand still for a moment as it washes over his face, and he runs a hand over his own skin, the different shades of red from himself, from his love, from his friend, from his child mingling together until they all wash away.

He realizes then that such is the way of the world. Or at least, of this one he is leaving behind.


End file.
